


the truth, and what to do with it

by oleksiacois



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Complicated Emotions, Dealing With Trauma, Established Relationship, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Underage Sex, ish?, sidgenoangstfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 04:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12623284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleksiacois/pseuds/oleksiacois
Summary: (The past rears its ugly head and Sidney Crosby can’t accept that it’s not his fault.)There’s a note in the envelope, typed.I have the negatives. There’s more where this came from.Sid’s heart sinks. He flips the paper, checks the backside, but it’s no use: there’s nothing else written on it, no demands, no details. This isn’t blackmail — at least not yet. It could be a threat. It has to be some kind of mind game, and it’s working.More where this came from?Sid considers for a moment what else they could have pictures of, then summarily shuts the lid on that line of thought. It’s too much for him to process.





	the truth, and what to do with it

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t think I’ve posted a new fic in like, two years. This is my first on my new account and my first RPF, too! 
> 
> Warning: the backstory of this fic involves an underaged character being sexually abused, which is not shown, but referenced multiple times. Click through to the end notes for more detailed content warnings.

There are photographs.

Sid has them splayed out on the kitchen table, the unmarked envelope he found them in sitting at his elbow. Five photographs of Sid when he was seventeen years old and utterly _stupid_ ; too stupid, apparently, to have noticed some random person taking pictures while he—

Well, it’s clear enough what teenaged-Sid is doing. The photos are taken from a vantage point that obscures the other man’s face, but by some quirk of Sidney Crosby’s goddamned luck, not his. They’re the kind of photos he’s lived in fear of for as long as he can remember, the kind of photos that would be disastrous if they were leaked — not only outing him, but causing a scandal, too. Sid has based decades of his life on two principals: never, ever drawing attention for anything but his hockey, and never, ever being anything but what he’s expected to be. But these photos would upturn everything, would leave no room to deny the truth anymore: after all, straight guys don’t suck cock.

_Someone must have seen something,_ Sid thinks desperately. He had found the envelope taped to his front gates, facing the street; anyone walking by would have seen it, could have even taken it if they wanted to. It was probably only luck and the grace of his quiet neighbourhood that he got to it first. _Someone had to have seen whoever left this here._

He should pursue legal action — he’s underage in these photos, he’s being threatened, he’s, he’s _scared_ — but — but that would still out him. That’s useless. Maybe he could just burn the photos. No, there’s no way these are the only copies. If this is blackmail, surely he can pay it? He has money. He just needs to know how much they want.

Sure enough, he finds a note in the envelope, typed. _I have the negatives. There’s more where this came from._

Sid’s heart sinks. He flips the paper, checks the backside, but it’s no use: there’s nothing else written on it, no demands, no details. This isn’t blackmail — at least not yet. It could be a threat. It has to be some kind of mind game, and it’s working. _More where this came from_? Sid considers for a moment what else they could have pictures of, then summarily shuts the lid on that line of thought. It’s too much for him to process.

So he doesn’t process anything. Sid slips everything back into the envelope and finds an unused drawer deep in his house to hide it in. He goes to sleep that night hoping to wake up and discover this was all a horrible, horrible nightmare.

 

 

 

It’s not, of course. The envelope is still in the drawer, looking far too innocuous when he feels like it would bite his hand off if he reached for it. Sid slept terribly, but at least the night gave him time to come to a decision: he needs to deal with this, proactively. Maybe he can’t go to law enforcement without outing himself, but he has an agent for a reason — Brisson always knows what to do. 

“Pat,” he says when he gets Brisson on the line, and waits just long enough to be sure that no one else is listening before he cuts to the chase. “Someone has incriminating photos of me, and I don’t know who they are or what they want.”

Brisson is quiet for a moment. “Incriminating in what way?”

“I’d rather not say that over the phone.” He would rather not say it, period.

“Illegal?”

Sid thinks about it. “Not on my part.”

“Now I’m worried.”

“Good,” Sid says. “You should be. I know I sound calm, but I’m—” _I’m shaking out of my skin. I’m petrified. I’m one breath away from a panic attack._ “I have a feeling this is going to be a big deal.” He explains finding the envelope, and the note inside it.

Afterwards, Brisson is quiet again, this time for at least a full minute. “I assume you can’t report it to the authorities, or you would have done that by now.”

“No,” Sid agrees. “I can’t risk this getting out.”

“Then here’s what you’ll do,” Brisson starts, his business voice out in full force. Sid sits up and pays attention. “You need to make sure the Penguins management knows what’s going on, in as much detail as you can give them, and probably the PR staff too. If this goes bad, they’re the ones who need to be prepared for the fallout. Obviously keep the photos in the safest place you can think of — _not_ on your person; if you need them with you for some reason that’s fine, but otherwise — no. I’ll do some digging and see what can be done in a situation like this — I’ll keep it discreet and anonymous, don’t worry — and I’ll be by in person soon to get more information about what _exactly_ is in these photographs. Understand?”

“Yes,” Sid exhales gratefully. He doesn’t like thinking about telling the PR team and management — _especially_ Mario, god — about the photos, but at least now he has a game plan. If there’s one thing Sid can do, it’s follow a game plan.

 

 

 

Sid eats a meagre breakfast, his stomach turning too much to really be hungry. He makes a detour before morning skate to go out and buy a sturdy lock that he takes home and puts on the drawer. The key is added to his necklace — the only place he can think of to put it, for now. It makes him late, but he thinks he’ll be forgiven for it under the circumstances.

In fact, Sid doesn’t go to the ice at all when he makes it to UPMC. He finds Jen first and tells her he needs to talk to management, and probably her, as well, and that it’s urgent. The next thing he knows he’s sitting in a meeting room, facing down all the relevant people. _Say what you will about Jen_ , he thinks, steeling his resolve, _but she’s nothing if not efficient._

The start of this conversation is much like the one he had with Brisson. Near word for word, actually, except that Sid can’t deflect this time when asked what’s in the photos. He doesn’t have a phone line to hide behind anymore.

“They’re photos of me with another man,”he starts with, because that much isn’t so hard to swallow. There’s no one in this room who doesn’t know he’s gay. Jen is nodding, actually, and she looks like she’s about to launch into an explanation of contingency plans she already has in place, but— “But, uh. They’re pictures of me when—”

This is the hard part. Sid steals a glance at Mario, who is watching him with concern in his eyes. Everyone is, really, but Sid can’t bear to look at them, so he makes eye contact with two faded drops of spilled coffee on the table instead when he says, “When I was underage, being intimate with a much older man.”

There’s a moment of silence at the table, only cut through by a sharp intake of breath from Mario’s direction. It lasts about a minute, before Jen asks sharply, “How underage?”

“Seventeen,” Sid answers.

“Okay,” says Jen. “Legally speaking — if we can find out who’s behind this, we can charge them with production and possession — and probably distribution — of child pornography, on top of blackmail charges.”

“They haven’t made any demands, though,” says Sid.

“Hmm,” Jen says, then writes something down.

“Sid,” Rutherford says gently — his first time speaking during this meeting. “Where are the photos right now?”

“Locked in a drawer at home.”

“Good. And you’ve spoken with your agent?”

“Yeah. But he doesn’t know what the photos are of, I didn’t want to tell him over the phone—”

“No, no, that makes sense. What if we...”

Sid tunes out after that. The conversation turns to preventative measures, whether Sid may need protection, and what to do if worse comes to worse. Sid answers questions when asked — otherwise he stays silent. The only one quieter than Sid is Mario, who keeps looking at him with worried expressions that Sid can’t face.

 

 

 

(Sid never hated that man for what happened. At least, not as much as he hates himself. He was such a stupid kid, so desperate, overcome by pressure on all sides to be the best, the next Gretzky, the future of hockey, when he was just a teenager and so unsure that he could be anything at all. Going to the Draft Combine coming off a bought of sickness made him worry about his standings, made him worry that he couldn’t live up to the standard that he and only he was held to. And then there was _him_ , offering him a shot, a guarantee — as long as he could prove how far he was willing to go to succeed. And Sid, in that moment, was willing to do anything.

The results came in ranking Sid the top prospect, and for years he hasn’t stopped wondering how he _really_ outshone the competition.)

 

 

 

The meeting ends with nothing decided. Mario leads him out with an offer of help getting home, which Sid accepts. He won’t say he’s not a little worried about being by himself right now, but now that he and Mario are alone together, in the hallway of the UPMC, he’s worried about something different.

Mario hasn’t said anything at all, not really. Sid has no idea what he’s thinking. He doesn’t think it’s good. Why would it be? Sid is ruining everything. Sid is fucking up royally. Sid is acting like a stupid little kid. But just when he thinks Mario is about to open his mouth and tell him so—

“I’m sorry,” Mario says, raw.

Sid doesn’t answer. He doesn’t get the chance to, because at that moment Geno, Phil and Schultzy round the corner and spot them.

“Sid!” Schultzy calls out immediately. “I can’t believe this. You cut practice? Have you been replaced by an actual fun human being? Oh, hello, Mr. Lemieux,” he adds, too formal for the shit-eating grin on his face.

Geno and Phil, on the other hand, share a frown behind Schultzy’s back. Geno looks from Sid, to Mario, to the meeting room they just stepped out of, and asks, “You here, but miss practice? Something wrong?”

“I, uh,” Sid stutters, because he — stupidly — hadn’t thought at all about what to tell the team. “Kinda?” he says, and winces under the disbelieving look Mario shoots him.

“Something kinda wrong,” Geno repeats slowly. “Okay.”

Schultzy has switched from cheerful to confused, and Phil has that look on his face that means he’s almost finished deciding what he wants to say, but not quite. Sid heads him off at the pass with, “But, uh, I’m heading out now, so. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Sure,” Phil says easily, but his lips are pressed flat and his eyes keep tracking between Sid and Mario. Geno looks similarly stubborn and that, more than anything else, is cause for worry.

Schultzy, at least, seems mostly oblivious. “Uh, okay? Sid, are you sure...”

“It’s fine,” Sid says, pasting on his tried-and-tested neutral smile. “Don’t worry about it, it’s going to be cleared up soon enough.”

Mario clears his throat. “If you boys will excuse us...”

Mario hustles Sid along and out to the car park, where he corrals him into his car. Mario takes his own and follows behind, which Sid doesn’t let himself feel grateful for. His skin itches with guilt at the relief he felt when he realized he wouldn’t have to share an enclosed space with Mario for even the relatively short drive back to their neighbourhood. He just — he can’t talk to anyone right now. He can’t.

Sid’s heart is in his throat up until he can see his own gates, and there’s nothing there. No new unmarked envelopes, no packages, not even a rock out of place. It’s dishearteningly heartening. 

What isn’t, though, is hearing the tires of another car pull in behind him. He’s still not ready to talk. But maybe he never will be, so maybe that’s why he has to. He turns around, but—

That’s not Mario’s car. That’s Geno’s.

“Your house is over there,” Sid says, because that’s what he says every time Geno shows up unannounced. Geno slams his car door without acknowledging, because that’s what he always does, too. Usually Sid takes comfort in the routine, but he knows what comes next and he can’t do it tonight. It’s probably the last thing he can do tonight. “I didn’t invite you,” he tries, which is stupid, because he never does.

It does make Geno pause, at least. “Sid. What wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Sid says instinctively.

Geno snorts. “Okay. Then nothing wrong I come inside, yes?”

“Right,” Sid says firmly, then curses himself the whole way into the house as Geno follows him. He curses himself while Geno removes his shoes and hangs up his jacket, exactly where Sid prefers to put shoes and coats, curses himself while Geno locks the door for him, the deadbolt at the bottom followed by the chain at the top followed by the slider in the middle, exactly the order Sid prefers to lock them. He doesn’t need that many locks — well, he didn’t used to — and most of the guys chirped him for it, but he liked to have them anyway, because it made his house feel more secure, more private. All he feels now, standing in the entryway of his own home, is cornered. By the photographs. By the future. By Geno.

Geno, who’s watching him right now, carefully. Normally at this point in their script they would be making out, at the very least. They usually like to get started down here before they make their way to the bedroom, but—

Fuck. The blinds aren’t open, are they? No — he checks — they’re not. Have they ever _been_ open? Does the photographer have pictures of him _with Geno_?

Why wait, Sid realizes, his blood dropping to the bottom of his limbs, unless they’ve been gathering pictures all this time? They have more photos. They said they did. There’s no way they don’t have photos of Geno, too.

Sid can’t let this ruin Geno — or anyone else.

“I need to— I— we have a problem,” Sid says. Geno, for his part, merely nods, like he’s been waiting for Sid to admit it all this time. He probably has been.

They go upstairs — a lot more somberly than they ever have before. Geno is silent while he watches Sid unlock the drawer and pull out the stupid fucking damn envelope. He wavers for a second before deciding to hand just the note to Geno.

Geno reads it, brows creased. Sid gives him time — it’s always harder for Geno to read in English than to speak in it — but finally he says, “Sid... what this mean, ‘negatives’?”

Right. That’s— “Like photos,” Sid tells him around his tight throat. “Someone— someone has photos of— of—”

Geno has turned appropriately grey. It seems like he’s about to say something, for just a moment, but then he snatches the envelope out of Sid’s hands instead, upending it.

“Wh— Geno!” 

Staring at the scattered photographs, Geno looks about as shocked as Sid feels. “Is— is not us.”

“ _No,_ it’s not,” Sid says. And then Geno has the gall to look _relieved_ and— “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” Geno says right back. “You make me think I am in photos.”

_You could be_ , Sid doesn’t tell him. He shouldn’t need to, to make Geno give a shit about the fact that _someone has photos of Sid_. He and Geno have been hooking up for years, and Sid has been feeling for a while that they’re on the verge of something deeper — he _knows_ Geno isn’t that selfish. “Fuck you, _fuck_ you, this could ruin my fucking life and you don’t give a shit and—” He cuts off, his breath catching up to him in a sob.

Geno deflates. “You right. You— I am sorry. I panic first, talk stupid, only fear. You right, this — this awful. Not about me.”

_I’m sorry too,_ is the first response Sid swallows, because he shouldn’t have to be. _It’s okay_ , is the second, because it’s not. “I’m scared,” is what he ends up saying. Because that — that much, at least, is the truth.

 

 

 

(Geno holds him then, and it reminds Sid of — he had held Geno like this, once. Last year, when the first accounts of gay men in Chechnya became public, and Geno appeared on his doorstep looking mournful and confused.

“I know is just one town,” Geno had whispered from within the sanctity of Sid’s arms, “and is not _my_ town. But I fear, Sid. Maybe someday I can’t go home again.”

And Sid had thought, at that moment, that he would do anything to keep Geno safe. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ )

 

 

 

Nothing happens for almost two weeks. And then—

_You should have kept quiet_ , Sid reads, numb, from the new note. But how did they know? The security camera he had installed by the gate had been smashed, its remains sitting at his elbow. There are two more photos, but this time, nothing illicit — both of these photos are already public, in fact. It takes a second for Sid to work out what they mean, but then—

_Oh,_ Sid thinks, _I was right. I’m so stupid._

The first photo is from their Cup celebrations two years ago, of Sid and Geno in the chaos of the locker room, embracing. The angle leaves just enough doubt that you could look at it and think Sid _might_ not be pressing his lips to Geno’s neck. The second photo is from the same celebrations last year. It’s one of the most popular photos of them already: Sid and Geno holding the Cup between them, kissing either side of it. Sid hadn’t noticed before, but — if you look closely, Geno’s eyes are open under the brim of his cap, and he’s looking right at Sid as he kisses the cold, hard metal.

The stalker has photos of Geno for sure. That’s what this means — they _could_ implicate Geno, but they’re not willing to, yet. That’s why the other man’s face wasn’t shown in the other pictures, either; they’re focused on Sid for now. That’s... good? _Better_ , he decides: it’s better this way. No one else should have to suffer for his mistakes. And it’s clear that trying to get help was a mistake.

But then as he’s slipping the photos back into the envelope he sees it: there’s more to this message, written on the backs of the photographs. _Your time here is over_ , on the first. _You’re going to make sure of it,_ on the second.

Sid goes cold. They want him to — what, get himself traded? Retire? 

Or — something worse?

 

 

 

(Sid gets Potash alone after a game and says, “This is probably kinda weird, and I’m sorry I can’t explain much, but can you I trust you to do me a favour?”

The phrasing is very deliberate. People like to joke about the way Sidney Crosby can talk his way out of questions without ever offering an answer, but that’s far from the only trick in his book. There are a lot of ways to manipulate people with words, Sidney has found; people always want to answer “can I trust you” with _yes_ , whether it’s true or not. Slipping it into requests is a reliable — if underhanded — way of making people agree.

And it works here. “Of course, Sid,” Potash answers, wide-eyed. “What can I do?”

Sidney doesn’t blink as he tells Potash, “I need you to start a rumour for me.”)

 

 

 

Brisson calls him the next week. “Sid, where are these rumours coming from?”

“Which ones?” Sid asks casually, phone to his ear as he makes dinner. “You know I don’t follow the hockey rags, Pat. They care more about getting clicks than doing actual journalism.” 

“Uh huh,” says Brisson. “So there’s absolutely no truth to the idea that the Penguins are thinking about trading you?”

Sid pauses just long enough to make it seem like he was caught off guard. “They’re saying _what_?” he asks, even though he knows what they’re saying probably better than Brisson does.

“You heard me.” He can hear some clicking from Brisson’s end of the line, like he’s pulling up articles as they speak. “It’s— no one can agree on much, but the sentiment is the same in paper after paper. Some are claiming you need to be moved because you take up too much cap. Some say it’s because you’re too old. Some say you’re becoming a nuisance in the room.” Sid can practically hear Brisson’s frown, showing what he thinks of that. “But most are saying you _requested_ a trade.”

“You don’t think I would’ve talked to you if I wanted a trade?” Sid says reasonably. “Which I don’t, by the way. You know I love Pittsburgh.” He doesn’t want a trade. He wants people to _think_ there will be a trade. Then, at least, he has more time — until the trade deadline in February — to figure out what to do.

“Which is why we need to know if there’s any truth to these rumours whatsoever,” answers Brisson. Sid does know: there isn’t. “All their reasonings may be weak, but there is something we know that they don’t: the photographs. If there’s any chance the Penguins might have decided it would be better to get rid of you than deal with it—”

Sid pauses again, but this time it’s because he freezes for real. “They wouldn’t,” Sid says instinctively. Would they? He hadn’t thought of that possibility at all. “I’m— I’m too valuable to the team.”

“Even Gretzky got traded,” Brisson reminds him sagely. Sid feels like he might throw up.

“I’ll— I’ll speak to management,” he promises. He and Brisson say their goodbyes and then — then all Sid needs to do is figure out how to ask management if the rumours are true without letting on that he started them himself. Easy.

(Fuck.)

 

 

 

As luck would have it, the team winds up beating him to the punch.

“So, team meeting,” Tanger announces in the dressing room, rapping his knuckled on his stall for attention. When the room gets about as quiet as it’s gonna be, he says, “We’ve got some fucking ridiculous rumours we gotta deal with.”

There are some murmurs from the guys — some seem to know what Tanger’s talking about, some don’t. Sid keeps his face impassable. 

“The ones about Sid, right?” Jake asks, and then shoots a nervous look at Sid. 

“That’s right, young grasshopper,” Tanger says, giving Jake an approving nod. Then he turns to stare piercingly into Sid’s eyes. “In case anyone didn’t know, the media has been particularly stupid recently, because they’re making up some dumb shit about our Sid asking for a _trade_.”

“No way,” Schultzy says immediately. There’s a general clamber of agreement — most of the younger, newer guys turn to Sid directly, sort of collectively urging him, ‘Right? Right?’ The older guys start talking over each other, confident that they don’t even need to ask. They’re right, basically. Sid didn’t request a trade and he never would have. Unless—

“This isn’t about Flower, is it?” Horny calls from the other side of the room, and the guys quiet a little. Horny’s tone wasn’t serious, clearly more teasing than seriously asking, but— well, if Sid _did_ have a reason to request a trade, it’d probably be that. Flower’s absence is still an alien feeling, still a gap that’s wider in his heart than it is on the ice. Sid is notoriously bad with change.

But it’s not true, so Sid calls back, “Fuck you, I’m not that dependent,” and Horny responds, “But you are a _little_ dependent.” And then all it takes is Phil saying, “Horny, you’re both the pot and the kettle,” with a significant look at Hags for the room to erupt in jeers.

“Order, order,” Tanger says, clapping his hands like he’s trying to imitate a gavel. Several people throw socks at him. “Order! If you lunkheads haven’t noticed, Sid hasn’t actually denied it yet.” Every eye in the room turns to Sid as Tanger stares him down. “Well? It’s not true, is it?”

“Well,” Sid starts, then averts his eyes. He somehow — stupidly — hadn’t thought about how he would have to explain to the team. What _can_ he tell them? 

“Sid?” one of the younger guys asks quietly. The room is totally silent now.

“I haven’t asked for a trade,” Sid says firmly, because that much is true. “But—” _But I need people to believe that I might have_ , he means. He knows what they’ll hear is ‘but I’m going to.’

There’s a long hush. Sid doesn’t dare look at anyone — he already knows what he would see.

“Sid,” Geno says, then swallows. “ _Sid_.”

“What the fuck,” Tanger says reflexively. “That’s— that’s _bullshit_ , what the fuck?”

“I thought you said you weren’t that dependent,” Horny blurts out. Someone throws a sock at him, but it’s halfhearted. 

Everyone seems to have something to say after that. The room gets loud again as people argue with each other, mutter to each other, about Sid. Sid hates it, but the upshot is he doesn’t have to answer any more questions. No one talks to him directly, like they think he couldn’t possibly have anything more to say.

Except Geno. Geno, who uses the cover of the room’s noise to come over to him and ask, “Sid — this about photos?”

_Of course it’s about the fucking photos_ , Sid wants to snap. _Everything is about the fucking photos, because the fucking photos are taking over my fucking life._ Instead he says nothing at all.

Geno frowns. “Whatever you’re think now, is stupid. Can’t run. Running don’t protect anybody else.”

Fuck Geno. Trying to pretend he’s brave enough to stick with Sid through this — like he didn’t panic when he thought he would be outed, too. And now he _could_ be, and he doesn’t even know it, and he’s calling Sid stupid of all things—

_Running doesn’t protect anybody else_. Sid swallows and closes his eyes, picturing the look on Geno’s face when he saw he wasn’t in the photos. _What if it could?_

Geno, pale and quiet in his arms and telling him— _Maybe someday I can’t go home again_. Brisson, who thought the Penguins might trade him so they wouldn’t have to deal with his problems. Mario, whose voice caught as he told Sid, _I’m sorry._

_Maybe I should just do it_. The thought comes to him like a pop fly — visible on its whole way there, but still a jolt when he catches it. _Just ask to be traded._

That’s it. He’s done. It’s time to fold. 

He’ll do it tomorrow, he decides, corners of his eyes prickling. He’ll march up to management, hand them a list of teams, and make them trade him to one of them. _Vegas,_ he thinks — he could sit next to Flower on the plane again. _Or Montreal_.

When he opens his eyes Geno is still looking at him, as stubborn in his concern as he is in anything else. Sid ignores him completely and gets to his feet.

Instantly, he has everyone’s attention again. Sid shifts from foot to foot, wondering if he should say something. 

He finally decides on, “Goodbye, guys.” Short. Simple. True.

_My time here is over,_ he thinks as he leaves. _I’m going to make sure of it._

 

 

 

“Your house is over there,” Sid says. Geno’s only response is to slam the car door.

Sid doesn’t want to do this right now. But nothing he says is going to get Geno to leave him alone — probably wouldn’t on a regular day, definitely won’t after that confrontation in the dressing room — so he trudges inside and lets Geno follow him in silence. He checks the blinds from the corners of his eye while Geno goes through the shoes-jacket-deadlock-chain-slider ritual, and thankfully all of them are closed. Not that that’s unusual anymore, of course. Sid has been keeping them shut all the time since the night he showed Geno the first envelope.

Geno wraps his arms around Sid from behind, pulling him to his chest. Sid lets him, doesn’t fight it. “Sid,” Geno says softly into his ear. “Why?”

“You aren’t going to talk me out of it, Geno.” Sid rests his hands on top of Geno’s arms, leaning into him. As far as Sid is concerned, this could be the last time they get to do this — to embrace for real, to be together. Depending on how fast the front office works, they may not even get to hug on the ice together for much longer. “I’ve made up my mind. This is my decision.”

“Decide leave me,” Geno says, the faintest hint of accusal in his tone. Sid tamps down the anger that flares in response to that. He wants to enjoy this, for as long as he can.

_I’m protecting you_ , he could say. It’s true. But Geno would try to convince him he doesn’t need protection — which is a lie. Sid knows Geno isn’t ready to accept the consequences of being outed, has seen the evidence with his own two eyes. _It’s better for everyone this way_ , which is true too, but Geno would try to make it seem like it isn’t. _This is what they want from me_ , but he could never say that, because Geno would never let him give up. But Geno can’t argue with him if he says nothing.

Geno has to go and prove him wrong, of course.

He turns Sid’s face towards his, peering directly into his eyes. “If you go,” he starts, then wavers, biting his lip. 

Slowly, deliberately, he leans in and lays his lips against Sid’s. They kiss each other more tenderly than they ever have before. Sid thinks they both know it will be their last. 

When they pull back, Geno finishes, “If you go, I go.”

Sid fights to keep his expression neutral. “Geno, what.”

“If you go, I go,” he repeats, firmer now. “I tell management, I not play on team with no Sid. They trade you, they trade me too.”

“They won’t do that,” Sid says immediately. “They won’t— they wouldn’t do that.”

“Then I send my lawyers. I buy out contract and I go sign where you sign. Won’t get rid of me, Sid.”

“You can’t.” What the _fuck_ , does Geno not give a shit about his own safety? His own happiness? Geno doesn’t want to leave Pittsburgh. _Sid_ doesn’t want to leave Pittsburgh. He shoves at Geno’s arms until he releases him, then puts as much distance between them as he can. “You can’t!”

“Can,” Geno says. A frustrated growl rips its way out of Sid’s throat, because that’s so childish, so _Geno_.

“Get out of my house,” Sid snaps, at the exact same moment Geno says, “Sid, I love you.”

They both flinch away, mirror images of each other for that brief moment. Geno’s fists clench, his face unreadable. Sid feels like he can’t air into his lungs. The silence stretches on.

“Okay,” Geno says finally. He turns, grabs his jacket, his shoes. Sid watches, unfeeling.

As Geno makes his way to his car, Sid stands in the doorway, thinking about it. _I love you too,_ he could tell him.

He shuts the door before Geno makes it to the end of the driveway. Turns the deadlock, puts the chain in place, then the slider. 

Geno can’t argue with him if he says nothing.

 

 

 

It’s eight P.M. in Las Vegas.

Most games start at six or seven, so Flower might be starting the second or third period by now. Unless — unless he’s on the road right now, maybe in a different time zone. Sid realizes he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know if Vegas has a game that night at all. Sid hates the very virtue of having to _think_ about it now.

Sid dials Flower’s number without bothering to check. He gets voicemail. 

“Hey Flower. It’s me. Uh. Sid.” He’s left Flower messages before; he doesn’t know why now it’s so much worse, why now it makes him feel the distance between them like a fishhook in his gut. “How are you? Um. I miss you. Don’t let it go to your head,” he adds, aiming for humour. Then he takes a deep breath and says, before he can chicken out, “I’m — I’m going to ask for a trade. I promise it’s not because of you — I know you’d kill me if it was. But, uh, I was going to put the Knights on my list of approved teams, if that’s okay with you. I understand if it’s not.” If there’s one good thing about Flower leaving, it’s the fact that Vegas loves him maybe even more than Pittsburgh did — he’s the face of the franchise. Sid’s arrival would obviously be a big deal — he could wind up overshadowing everything that Flower’s done. Again. “Call me back.”

Sid puts the phone down feeling worse than when he picked it up.

 

 

 

Rutherford’s face is blank as he reads Sid’s list of approved teams. Sid waits, staring at his eyebrows. He doesn’t look at Sullivan, who has his arms crossed and is watching Sid like a faulty play he has to fix, or at Mario, who has his head in his hands, not speaking, not moving. Finally Rutherford looks up. “Sid...”

“Is there a problem in the room?” Sullivan cuts in. “Because you know we would trade anyone before you. Even me. If you want me fired, Sid, I’m gone.”

Sid shakes his head quickly. “No. No, I’m not having issues with anyone.”

“Then why?” 

“You don’t need my reasons,” Sid says, practiced. “I’m giving you an ultimatum.”

Rutherford sets Sid’s list down on the table, smoothing his hand over it so it lies flat. “And what’s that, Sid?”

“You can trade me before the deadline this year, or I’ll retire at the end of the season.”

Rutherford’s and Sullivan’s eyebrows fly up. Mario lifts his head, but he’s still gazing into his own palms instead of anyone’s eyes. “Sid,” he says, voice strangled. “You don’t have to...”

“I appreciate your input, Mario,” Sid tells him, “but I’m going through with this.”

Rutherford is — smiling at him now, almost amused. “I understand what it is you’re saying.” He folds up Sid’s list until he can slip it into his pocket. “Thank you for bringing the issue to us. We’ll make sure it gets resolved.”

Sid purses his lips but forces himself to stand up. This is the only thing he can do, for now. He doesn’t want to retire — there’s no way Rutherford doesn’t know that. He doesn’t think Sid would go through with it.

Sid doesn’t know if he would, either.

He finds Jake and Conor in the hallway when he leaves the room, and they converge on him immediately.

“Did you do it?” Conor asks, wide-eyed. Sid nods, then sighs as his and Jake’s faces fall, their shoulders drooping.

“Let me take you guys to lunch,” he offers. They latch on to the opportunity just like he thought they would, and Sid fights not to let himself look unhappy about it. He loves Jake and Conor, he really does. They’re bright young men, and good players, both comfortable on his wings despite the age difference between them. Sid is well aware of the way the fans like to joke that he’s practically their father; it’s not that far off the mark, a lot of the time.

He just wishes, right now, that he could be alone.

 

 

 

(Sometimes, Sid looks at their open, trusting faces, and wonders. They’re older now, but not really wiser, than Sid was when he made the worst mistake of his life. When he was so desperate for the chance to prove himself that he was willing to offer up his body, and too stupid, apparently, to think of how exposed he was, on his knees in some anonymous board room.

If he put Jake or Conor in the same position, Sid asks himself on his darkest days, would they make the same choice? If he told them that to have a place on the team, they needed to let him fuck them — would they do it?

Sid feels sick with himself for even thinking about it.)

 

 

 

The first time a reporter asks him about the trade rumours, Sid tells them, “I don’t know anything about that,” which pretty much confirms it in the eyes of the media. It’s exactly how he planned it. Everything is going smoothly.

It’s Geno that’s the problem.

“I never let Sid be trade,” he says in his own interview. “I say, I not want to play if Sid is not here. Sid is very best and I’m never know Penguins without him.”

—Which would be incredibly romantic, if they were still talking to each other.

He certainly doesn’t say such nice things about Sid when the cameras are off. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. Sid and Geno don’t speak to each other; they don’t look at each other; they avoid each other as much as they can. They don’t bring it onto the ice, and they try to keep it out of the room, but it’s thick in the air between them whenever they’re together.

“I think Geno is upset,” Conor whispers to him once, during warmups before a game. 

Sid claps him on the back and just answers, “Yeah, he is,” which doesn’t seem to comfort Conor much at all.

The thing is Sid can’t stop thinking about it. Months ago he would have died of happiness if Geno said he loved him; now he wishes he could go back and scrape those moments out of time itself so he wouldn’t have to know exactly how badly he fucked up.

Most of the guys approach him, at some point or another. They all want to know the same thing: why did he request a trade? Sid doesn’t give anyone a straight answer; in fact, he implies — with less and less subtlety as time goes on — that it’s none of their business, until finally they get the message and back off. But until that happens, the stream of teammates feels endless, just like the guilt they leave him with.

“I don’t know what my place is on this team, with you off it,” Reaves confesses when they talk. Sid feels bad but he’s sure Ryan will find his feet; he might have been brought on to protect Sid, but Rutherford wouldn’t have picked him if he were only an enforcer and not a strong player, too. Sid tells him so and that, thankfully, ends the conversation.

Tanger plays dirty. “You’re his favourite uncle,” he says, holding up his adorable, baby-faced son. “He’ll miss you so much. Isn’t that right, Alex?” Sid doesn’t even dignify that with a response — mostly because he can’t without giving himself away. Tanger knows his weaknesses too well.

Jake, Conor, and the rest of the rookies know his weaknesses too; they give him their saddest eyes until he capitulates and takes the lot of them golfing. No one even chirps him for being such a dad, for once.

When Gonch comes up to speak to him, he tries to start the conversation by asking about Geno, which is typical — he’s always been overly invested in Geno’s life, since Geno billeted with him as a rookie. But Sid goes tightlipped enough that Gonch sighs and changes tracks: “Just promise me you’re not getting yourself traded because you’re having relationship issues.” Sid thinks about telling him that he and Geno were never together, but Gonch has a remarkable way of seeing through bullshit, and it’s not like he would care anyway. Sid shakes his head and Gonch says, “Good. Knowing you, I’m sure your reasons are still stupid, but even you shouldn’t be _that_ stupid.”

“Hey, fuck off,” Sid says mildly.

Gonch snorts, and then they sit in companionable silence for a minute or two, just looking out the window together. Sid almost forgets Gonch is there; he startles when he speaks again.

“You know, it was hard for me, at first, when the Pens traded me to Ottawa,” Gonch starts, surprising Sid with the sincerity in his voice. “Uprooting my wife, my daughters, and moving to a new city, a different country — again. But it turned out fine there. It turned out fine wherever I went.” Sid smiles tightly, opening his mouth to respond — but he doesn’t get to, because Gonch turns to him then, holding merciless eye contact as he continues, “But this city, these people — I always missed them, because they were a part of me. I think you’re like me that way. And you’ll come back, just like I did. You won’t know how not to.”

Sid feels cold. He thinks about Geno, the photographs that exist somewhere that could get him ostracized from his homeland, or worse, because he got involved with Sid. He thinks about the team management — of Mario — who are dealing with so much right now, because Sid just had to be stupid enough to get himself caught on camera. And he thinks of Jake, of Conor, who trust him so much, even though he could hurt them so easily.

He hopes they never have to see him again.

“Of course, all the people I knew here keep leaving too,” Gonch goes on, his tone returning to its regular irreverent deadpan. “If you go, you’ll leave me with, what, Zhenya and Letang? They’ll drive me off the deep end, Sid. You can’t do that to me.”

Sid forces a laugh, but his mind is stuck in guilt and dread. _You’ll come back_ , Gonch had said with such surety, _You won’t know how not to_. 

God, he can’t. He can’t let himself be that fucking selfish.

 

 

 

The deadline comes.

 

 

 

They don’t trade him.

 

 

 

When Sid walks in, the dressing room goes quiet. Everyone looks at him with something different in their expression — some seem kind of relieved, or even hopeful; from others, he thinks he can read something like pity. There’s the big question, floating in the air — _What happens now?_ — but no one is willing to pop the bubble. It just grows and grows until there’s no room for anything else to be said.

Geno’s eyes cut into him from across the room, intense, unreadable. It’s the first time Geno has looked directly at him in weeks.

Sid thinks about putting this off but it’ll only get harder. So now, while he already has the room’s attention, he clears his throat and just says, “I told them if they didn’t trade me, I would retire. So. That— That’s what I’m going to do.”

Hags’ water bottle falls out of his hands, but the resulting thud sounds more like the cannon in Columbus amidst the silent stares everyone else is giving Sid. Sid really doesn’t have anything more to say, so he adjusts his bag on his shoulder and walks past everyone to his stall.

At the same time Sid sits down, though, Geno stands up. They make eye contact, and for a second, Sid thinks Geno’s about to tear into him, right here in front of everyone. But instead, he turns and storms out of the room. Sid is torn for a brief moment between relief and worry, and winds up settling somewhere south of numb.

Phil rises. “I’ll go talk to him.”

Tanger leans over to Sid as Phil goes and whispers, “What the fuck is even going on?” 

Sid pretends not to have heard him. 

“Sid,” Tanger pesters, nudging him a little. “Sid?”

He gives up after a minute, as Sid devotes himself solely to getting into gear for practice. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t acknowledge anyone, and they give him the grace of not acknowledging him back. Phil returns after a while, but Geno doesn’t.

“He’s going to do something stupid,” Sid overhears Phil say to Schultzy later, while they’re taking slapshots on Muzz. “But then again, I’m pretty sure Sid is, too.” And then he casts a glance — deliberately not at Sid, but just to the side of him, which definitely means he knows Sid can hear him. Sid skates off, ears burning.

After practice his phone chimes with a text message, and he reaches for it expecting Flower — he’s been blowing up Sid’s phone lately, alternating between telling him how stupid he’s being and coming up with wild antics they could get up to in Vegas together.Somehow, the mixed messages are oddly comforting. They may actually be the most comfort Sid has right now.

But the message is not from Flower. It’s from Mario.

_We need to talk_ , Sid reads, heart sinking. _Do you have time to come over today?_

_Sure,_ Sid responds, even though Mario is about the last — second last, after Geno — person he wants to see right now. _Does after lunch work for you?_

They set up a meeting with perfunctory, polite text messages that make Sid want to crawl out of his own skin. Nothing feels genuine, nothing feels real. It’s all just lies. Lies that Mario is feeding him — lies that, all of a sudden, Sid feels like Mario has _always_ been feeding him — because he doesn’t care about Sid as a person. To him he’s just another body on the ice.

And then that bitter moment vanishes, and Sidney is numb again. He sends Mario one last _I’ll see you then_ , and tries not to think about it.

 

 

 

The air is oddly still around the Lemieux residence when Sid walks up. He thinks everyone must be out, and he nearly turns around and bails, but there’s Mario, standing on the front porch. Sid almost calls out to him — but then he sees it, and his entire world narrows down. Because, held in Mario’s hand casually as if it were a postcard, or a bill, or really anything else at all, is an unmarked envelope.

 

 

 

Sid is still in a state when Mario sits him down in the office, the envelope laid flat on the table between them. He stares at it, waiting for it to explode. He knows what has to be in there. Why else send it to Mario, unless—

“So,” Mario begins, “this whole drama about requesting a trade — it’s all because of the blackmailer.”

Sid twitches, wanting to be angry. _This whole drama_ , Mario called it, like it’s petty, like he’s overreacting. That’s something he should be angry about, he thinks. But he can’t summon the feeling.

“They’re threatening me now, too,” Mario continues softly. “Demanding I trade you, or they’ll expose my secrets along with yours.”

This is exactly what Sid didn’t want. “But you didn’t trade me,” he says, voice faint.

“No,” Mario agrees.

“So now I have to retire.” Sid is starting to feel that anger he was looking for a second ago. If the blackmailer will expose Mario for not trading him, then even if Sid retires it’s still— “Why didn’t you just trade me, Mario?”

“First of all, Jim would never let you go. He doesn’t think you’ll really retire, but he would still rather you retire a Penguin than play anywhere else.” The anger is really there now, but Mario doesn’t look at him, doesn’t notice. They really _don’t_ care about Sid as a person, do they? He’s just the player. The goal-scorer. The face of the franchise. The replacement for Mario Lemieux him-fucking-self— “Secondly, I have a plan to deal with this that doesn’t involve your retirement.”

Sid doesn’t want to hear it. “Tell me.”

Mario looks at him then, his hands folded together. “Truth is the natural enemy of blackmail.”

“I can’t do that,” Sid says instantly. It’s obvious why he can’t— he would have done that in the fucking _first_ place, how stupid does Mario think he is?

“I know,” says Mario. “But I can.”

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. 

“I want you to know this is something I was already thinking about before I received these photos.” Mario taps his fingers on the envelope. “Before _you_ received any photos. Thirteen years is plenty long enough for me to have realized that what I did to you then was more than just awful, or illegal, it was — completely despicable.”

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. 

“No,” Sid chokes. “You— you can’t do that.”

“I have to. There’s nothing I can do to absolve myself of what I’ve done, but this — at least with this, maybe, I can help you.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me,” Sid snaps, pushing himself to his feet. His chair drops behind him. Mario looks startled, which— _good_. “You _can’t_. Don’t you know what would happen to you? What people would say?”

“Nothing I wouldn’t deserve,” Mario says. Sid’s knees are shaking. “Sid — I took advantage of you. I made you feel like you had to do it to make the team. I sexually abused you. Sid, I committed statutory rape. You of all people have to know that I shouldn’t just get away with it.”

“No, no—” Sid clutches at his hair, eyes squeezed shut. “You just want to clean up my messes like you always do — I’m a grown man, I can take care of myself — I can take responsibility—”

“Sid, did you hear any of what I just said?” Mario asks. He sounds like he can barely find the air to speak. “Are you hearing _yourself_? Sid, what part of this is your fault?”

Sid opens his mouth but everything leaves him. He’s angry, he’s so fucking angry, at Mario, at Geno, at the blackmailer and _especially_ at himself, and yet—

For the first time in thirteen years, he can’t dredge up a single reason to blame himself for what happened.

“I refuse,” Sid whispers, still. “You won’t do it, because I’m telling you not to. Have you learned to take a ‘no’ by now?” He watches with cruel vindication as Mario bites his tongue. “You don’t know what this would do to me, Mario, I— God, I’ve never hated you more in my life.” And he turns and makes his way to the door.

“Sid,” Mario stops him, just before he can leave. What he says next makes Sid seethe, makes him slam the door behind him and not look back: 

“I deserve your hatred.”

 

 

 

Sid calls Jen on his way home.

“I need to announce my retirement,” he says the second she picks up.

Jen is silent for only a moment. “I understand,” she says, her voice tired. “Shall I arrange a press conference?”

“Yes,” Sid says, “thank you.” And then he turns into his own driveway, and has to hang up because of what he sees there.

He doesn’t even say it this time. Geno knows precisely where his own house is, and it’s a farce to pretend he’s sitting on Sid’s front steps for any other reason than why he is. He’s probably here to convince Sid not to retire. Well, good fucking luck.

Sid goes past him without a word, enters his house and breezes into the living room without bothering to shut the door. He doesn’t have the energy to tell Geno to leave, or even really the option. Geno wouldn’t listen. 

Sid is instinctively checking the blinds when he notices that Geno isn’t behind him. It’s not until he hears the shuffling by the front door that he realizes Geno must have stopped to put away his shoes and his jacket. Sid listens to the clack-rattle-slide of the locks in sequence and then — there are tears running down his cheeks. He wants to wipe them away but he’s frozen in place.

Geno comes into the room and his expression doesn’t even twitch at the sight of Sid’s tearful face. He just comes up and puts a hand at the small of Sidney’s back, leads him over to the couch and helps him sit down. Sid has never felt so angry, and helpless, and _safe_ , all at the same time, and he just can’t stop crying.

“I don’t want to retire,” pulls itself out of his throat.

“I know,” Geno says gently, his hand stroking up and down Sid’s back steadily.

Sid hiccups. “I love you.”

Geno closes his eyes. “I know,” he whispers.

Sid starts sobbing then. Geno holds him, and they stay like that for what feels like hours, until Sid’s sobs lessen into shivers and Geno begins pressing kisses to his forehead, whispering, “Is okay, Sid, I’m ready, I love you, I love you, I’m ready.”

“R-ready?” Sid asks, confused. Geno nods quickly, and then — he hands Sid his phone. “Geno, what?”

Geno huffs, taking the phone back and thumbing open instagram. “I’m get everything ready,” he rushes. “I call parents, brother, I have things sent from Russia — I’m start file for citizenship. We can come out, Sid. I’m ready.”

Sid thinks he’s going to cry again. Geno, tentative, tilts the phone toward him. He isn’t sure he wants to do this, but — but maybe this is what he has to do, just to make everything else go away. He reaches out and, slowly, lifts the phone from Geno’s hand.

Geno’s fingers twitch, like he wants to take it back.

And then Sid knows they’re on the same page — they’re both prepared, but neither of them are ready. What he doesn’t know is whether that’s going to be enough.

Sid puts the phone down. “Thank you,” he tells Geno, sincere. “But we need to talk about this more. Together.”

Geno nods, his expression one of worry, but hiding the faintest hint of relief. Something bright blooms in Sid’s chest and he’s just — he’s glad. He’s glad he has him. He leans forward to kiss him, the perfect match in tenderness to their last one, and knows that whatever Sid decides next, he’ll have Geno’s support.

 

 

 

In the end, there’s no perfect answer. 

 

 

 

There’s only the truth, and what to do with it.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Detailed warnings: As a teenager Sid was manipulated into sex by an adult and unknowingly photographed by a third party. Oral sex is the only act confirmed to have been involved. This is backstory to the fic and the event is not actually shown. The abuser does appear in this story, but they are not revealed until the end.
> 
> In the present, Sid has self-blaming thought patterns and some intrusive thoughts as a result of the trauma. He never refers to the event as rape or sexual abuse, although other people do.]
> 
> The photos of Sid and Geno I referenced are [ here ](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/58/e0/79/58e07988798b68ec757fa867eb28a267.jpg) and [ here](https://www.reviewjournal.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/8714015_web1_webap_17163166155600.jpg). I swear I saw some version of that second photo where Geno was actually looking at Sid, but I can't find it anymore. Use your imagination?
> 
> I appreciate all comments and feedback so much! As much or as little as you want to say )


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